It Was Always 221B
by vintagelittlewhispers
Summary: John's moved out of 221B to live with Mary, but it seems Sherlock and John both realise that the most important in life, is the thing they are both without. Each other.
1. Chapter 1

Exactly seven months ago John Watson had moved out. He'd taken most of his belongings from 221B and brought them over to the flat he now shared with Mary, in Soho Square. Sherlock had seen the day that John would leave coming from a mile away, the day when running around London at ridiculous hours chasing after criminals would get too much. The day when John realised he needed stability in his life rather than chaos and a hectic lifestyle, Sherlock knew the day would arrive he just didn't want to believe it.

Sherlock sat in his usual chair opposite what used to be John's. Seated in his chair, he wore his blue dressing gown and held a glass in his left hand, filled to the brink with whiskey. In his other hand was a cigarette and a nicotine patch. His eyes flickered between the two and then back to John's chair once again. He kept up this movement until it formed into a routine, although most days a glass of whiskey did not accompany him. But today was a little different than all the other days that had passed Sherlock throughout the week, today marking the seventh month he had painfully endured without John Watson by his side. The day that two full glasses of whiskey followed by another three had unintentionally found their way into Sherlock Holmes' hands.

He'd spotted John one day on his way to Scotland Yard, he'd been so occupied thinking about the case that he failed to look when crossing the road. He looked up in just enough time to dodge the oncoming cab that hurdled towards him, upon looking up and ignoring the honking from the driver, Sherlock noticed a small figure in the corner of his eye. John. Sherlock froze unsure of how to react, inside he cursed and swore of his heart and body's betrayal. Sherlock felt weak and shut his eyes instantly wishing to be back in the four safe walls of 221B, he would have remained still and calm if it wasn't for the noise that filled his ears. Sherlock still stood motionless in the middle of the road, traffic hurtling towards him, if it wasn't for the shove that came from behind him one of the seven cars would have stripped his body from his soul. Seconds later he was on the floor face laying against the gravel with his savour nowhere to be seen.

It had come to Sherlock's attention that his 'living life without John Watson' plan was proving quite a struggle. Of course John and Mary had tried to visit many of times, but Sherlock couldn't muster up the strength to see them and to fake a smile of happiness in their company. Although Sherlock would never bring himself to ask Mycroft for help, Mycroft knew he needed it and informed the soon-to-be Watson household that Sherlock had left for a case over in New York. When hearing of this John was shocked, the look on his face displayed the pain of finding out from Mycroft and not Sherlock himself, but instead of fully showing it he nodded his head and asked Mycroft to pass onto Sherlock, best wishes from himself. Moments later he left the café with Mary by his side as pain and despair clouded his vision and as they walked home John suddenly missed the hectic lifestyle he once had more than ever.

Since Mycroft had informed John and Mary of Sherlock's departure, Sherlock had confined himself to the living room and occasionally the bathroom of 221B, only leaving for the occasional shopping trip for cigarettes and vital items for his experiments. But once six months had passed Sherlock's brain had hit a critical stage, forced to remain almost still due to the lack of cases and work that once used to flood his brain with thoughts and chemicals. Now leaving it to rely on mundane experiments such as the length of time it took for fungus to grow on a human toe nail.


	2. Chapter 2

John set out of his flat on the Monday morning ready for a long day at the surgery, he felt drained due to the nightmares that surrounded him last night. He took a deep breath and heading in the surgery's direction. By the time he had arrived at the surgery Sarah had shoved a list of patients into his hands. John sighed and looked forward to the large number of flu and cold patients that were likely to be on his list. It would be a long day indeed.

Back in Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was packing the final few things for her holiday. Sherlock finally had enough of her constant worrying and mothering over him since John's departure, so as a result he used one of Mycroft's 'borrowed' credit cards to magic up a free holiday to New Zealand. She spend twenty minutes venting to Sherlock about keeping himself in good health, a further ten minutes about not destroying the flat and an extra six minutes about taking a case. Throughout her venting Sherlock remained still, keeping loose eye contact as his mind wondered around the six quickest ways to cut off a human's oxygen supply. He felt mildly guilty at thought of doing one of the six to Mrs Hudson, after all she was only trying to care. But the guilt was replaced with annoyance and heartache as she spoke of John's name, and Sherlock almost allowed himself to choose one from the creative list.

According to Sherlock's subconscious Mrs Hudson left at 3:41PM to catch the 6:15PM plane, she locked the door and left Sherlock's unopened pile of mail on the side. The minute he knew she was gone Sherlock sighed happily, he raced over to the kitchen cupboard and dived his hands right to the back, fumbling around to find a box approximately sized to the equivalent to quarter of a shoe box. Angrily and impatiently he threw the other objects in the cupboard around the kitchen, in his mission to find his small box. Two smashed mugs and one bent spoon later, Sherlock found exactly what he was looking for. With the first smile on his face in seven months Sherlock made his way to his chair in the living room, sitting directly opposite to wear John Watson once used to sit. Firstly Sherlock turned off the pointless television that Mrs Hudson had turned on for him in an attempt to keep his mind on other things. He also turned off his phone and put on the kettle before returning back to his seat and opening the brown wooden box with the initials SH carved neatly on the top.

He ran his pale thin fingers over the edge of the box, tracing every indentation. He inhaled slightly heavier than usual as we pulled out a syringe from the box, fully loaded with heroin. He rolled up the sleeve to his purple shirt, got comfortable in his seat, looked at John's empty chair and inserted the needle into the skin at the crease of his elbow. Without a thought he emptied the solution into his thin body, the drug swam through him following the pumping of his blood, cursing through his veins. The drug had hit Sherlock's body but because of his recreational usage of drugs in the past, his mind didn't feel a thing. Disappointed, Sherlock grabbed another syringe filled with heroin once again, inserting it in the same place and repeated the pattern. This time it surged through his body, tangling and mixing with the previous dosage. Sending chemicals flying hopelessly through the detective's body, up they went as the chemicals flooded the genius' mind. Sherlock gasped as the vivid drug kicked in, he tipped his head back and let it take control of him. He didn't look at the dosage, he didn't care about the dosage, although he should have. He opened his eyes from his blissful state of mind to see a picture of John and himself on the fireplace, he didn't cry, he didn't frown, he smiled. Sherlock Holmes was in love for the first and last time, he hated the idea but at the same time he welcomed it. His thoughts were of John as he closed his eyes to snuggle into the powerful heavenly chemical stream, thinking he could die happily…

_This is my first fanfic, it probably sucks but I'm trying! Please let me know what you think of it so far...Should I push the rating up to M? ...I'm tempted - Charlie_


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